Not a Girl, Not Yet a Cougar

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Today I test well with the 18-24 demographic who enjoyed talking to me all day long about my pretty pink hair. Seriously, mall boys? I know you didn. I think I’m ovulating or something, except rather than planning to ruin the lives of these boys by leaving a trail of STDs, outstanding parking tickets, etc., I am instead focusing on inanimate objects or moods. Music is so beautiful today and everything smells so good. I am in love with the world rather than the people in it and this is disturbingly transcendent and non-carnal of me, so I assume it’s just a phase.

I kind of wish I could go on a rampage of Epic Rake proportions but I just don’t have it in me. I have that feeling like in dreams where I walk from room to room, immediately forgetting the previous room and being completely incurious about what’s going on with strangers I hardly know, who insist on dropping tantalizing tidbits before me. I used to feel like it was my duty as as a writer to actively rubberneck, to catch the essence of life, distill it, and bottle it into a few words that would actually make people give a shit about something and feel glad that they woke up this morning. Maybe it’s because I actually am writing more lately, so I am out of Humanity Research mode. If we are not already besties, I am probably not the best person to tell about your colon operation or your affair with your Esperanto professor. NO.

There is this little part of me that is concerned I am coming off as a giant feckless douchebag, and this other part of me that doesn’t care. How long is it reasonable to stay in survival mode? Is it ground gained and lost again? I usually do things more dramatically and decisively, like Wonder Woman gets her fucking powers back all the sudden and kicks out the wall. Now, I don’t know. I feel like I can do things by halves.

Thursday night I spent throwing up and my prime suspect is dodgy pub nachos, since everything else I ate that day was awesome and lovingly caressed by artisans holding degrees who are located within a ten-mile radius. It’s either the nachos or some stuff I ate off the ground after I left the pub. Tough call. While I was ill Franny’s stepmother came over and used the bathroom and no doubt took in the squalorous state of my sickhouse. Part of me feels judged by the smug contingent who have only been married once (Big ups, go Team Inertia) and the other part of me thinks, WELL WELL, just wait until you are a used up slattern with piles of debt and recycling that needs taking out. JUST WAIT.

Also, I want to tell you that the thing I forgot about retail is that you are absolutely trapped and are completely under the thrall of the public and their whims. I would like you to do a ten-point inspection of me and tell me why every time I work retail portly men in their fifties decide I am the fucking tits. Show your work. I keep getting older but these guys stay the same age. Cripes.

Today’s Horoscope: Today you will get caught sniffing your ring finger on the bus repeatedly, producing a look of shock and revulsion, but you will be unable to stop. You will find a pink hair in your food, which you will blame on me. DNA testing will clear my name, but what you don’t know is that the SPIT is mine.

Lucky numbers: FUCK RIGHT OFF.

P.S., Gave up and ordered a Vista recovery disk. I am a little afraid that Vista owns me now. OSes will move on, but Vista and I are tied, I fear. You never forget the one who made out with you at the movies, dented your car, talked you into London Bridging but then made you soup, and then got away. Despondent sonnets to follow; watch this space.

18 thoughts on “Not a Girl, Not Yet a Cougar”

  1. You are not only the tits, but the nips as well. Have you even seen your rack, lady? I am not portly 50yo man.

    If you are eating crap off the ground, I think mebbe you are slowly turning freegan.

  2. Retail is indeed all about the public. I worked in a grocery store for one year after grad school. I was a cashier, a stock girl, a baker, and I worked in the deli. I’m a jack of all trades, yo! But, the public is like a hungry vampire, eying up your neck even though they’ve already just fed off of the seventeen gazillion other employees they’ve spoken to, because they can’t find the canned asparagus, but NOT THAT KIND! The other kind, you know, with the green label??? And where are those noodle thingies that look like birds nests? WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DISCONTINUED THEM?? Oh, and I can’t actually pay for all of this so you must have rung up my vegetables wrong. Yes, it’s your fault. It is ALWAYS your fault.

    The old men are the worst. THE WORST. “Smile, honey,” they say, leering at your chest, which is covered in a bad polyester shirt and an apron but somehow they still seem to be able to picture you naked. eeeeeeewwwwww. I like my men like I like my cheese, fresh and beautifully clear of age spots/mold/spots in general.

    I’ve gotten to the halfway point at times, too. Am right there now. Halfway between penury and superstardom. It could be worse, I imagine.

  3. SMILE HONEY. Oh my god. That nailed it, right there. I don’t hear that anymore because I smile all the time now. It’s funny, I actually feel like it’s safer because then I can look at them like THE ROCK SMELLS WHAT YOU’RE COOKING without even dropping it or batting an eye. I had one yesterday that was making me carry boxes and then was trying to “change his mind” by pointing at and touching the ones I was carrying closest to my chest. AWESOME. I see what you did there, sir. Crossing the sales floor makes you wheeze so I think I can outmaneuver your sausagey fingers.

    REALLY, when you are getting your jollies attempting to “accidentally” poke a shopgirl’s boob then it’s time to budget for some paid sex. And yay, he’s a regular.

    A: Roffle, you propagandist you.

  6. Hur, thanks. This was pretty stream of consciousness so now I feel embarrassed. :/

    acb: Scroll down a couple of entries!

  7. I concur, ye are teh tits and I be not a portly 50 year old man but a mere portly 29 year old dame.

    My theory? though art channeling the s-e-x-x-y-ness of Matthew McCauneghey and are drawing in those whom are so outside your reality they should not even be anywhere near you. Your lack of handlebar mustache notwithstanding, you have not pink trousers, but have pink hair. They wish they could be so frank with their daughters, those pampered girls who are aloof, but accept their many gifts. You, however, are rapt because you are paid to be so, and because you are so much cheaper than a therapist or life coach, you are the recipient of their logorhhea. In fact, it could even be free for them if they unload and then do not purchase anything from the company which employs you.

  8. On the top of your home page (yea I know there is name for it; banner? it is early and I have 5 kids, brain dead k?)

    The guy leanin on his hand while learnin; is that Xmas Steve? B/c I like to think he is. GUH

  10. The guy on the banner at the top (I’m amazed I managed to dredge this up from some far corner of my brain) is the guy from “Clerks.” That much I could get from my brain–from imdb, I got that he is Brian O’Halloran as “Dante.” But I’d say he is the spiritual cousin of Xmas Steve.

  12. I love the way you write. Your blog has cheered me up. I been living here 14 yrs and I Just found you…from someone’s roll call…Damn lady, you sure brighten up this internet atmosphere. Someday I will get organized and be writing too…You are inspiring me…Keep on keeping on wif your bad Self…

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